


Alright on My Own

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:28:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6348163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos startles awake with a rattling gasp.  It is not the first time.  He doubts it’ll be the last.  (post season 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alright on My Own

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written on tumblr with the prompt "Aramis freaking out because now porthos flinches when caught off guard by someone's touch." Went kind of vague with the prompt, which is always what I do basically lol.

Porthos startles awake with a rattling gasp. It is not the first time. He doubts it’ll be the last. 

He used to dream poorly in the Court. The worse kinds of nightmares, the kinds that were so close to being real and left him aching when he woke up. Things now that haunt him in a way that only ever hurts. He closes his eyes, scrubs his hand over his face. Tries to even his breath. 

Those dreams, then, now—

Thinking, deep down in his hopeful heart, that he would come for them – because he was a child, a little child who couldn’t know any better—

Holding her hand as she succumbed to the fever. 

They haunt him now. It is not her fault. It was not his fault, either. He knows that now, after years of blaming himself. 

Hours later, early morning – a tiny, insignificant fight with some Spanish spies they’re tracking. Porthos is out of it, has been out of it all morning. He gets a pommel hard in his ribs that sends him rocking towards the side, skids, almost topples down off a cliff face. The fight continues. 

They win. Of course they do. More Spanish blood on his hands, but that’s war. 

Porthos stares down the long ravine. It’s a long drop, a river below. If he were to fall, he thinks absently, it’ll only mean broken bones. He wouldn’t die. His stomach lurches up into his throat, all the same. The edge of the cliff pulls at his feet, almost like he’ll fall – a sudden moment of dizziness. 

He thinks, how badly did she fear when she knew she was dying—

He thinks, would I have time to fear, when I die? When, inevitably, the sword hits. 

He steps back from the edge. His legs feel wobbly, uneven. 

No, it isn’t that he stepped. Aramis pulled him back. 

Aramis’ hand goes to his arm and he flinches at the touch – blinking once, unexpected, not thinking he’d be rattled like this. 

The look he gives Porthos is nothing short of wounded, letting go of Porthos as soon as he flinches. It isn’t as if Aramis could know about the dreams. Their early years in friendship were spent with Porthos coaxing Aramis into restful sleep, banishing dreams of Savoy. Aramis knew Porthos once dreamed, doesn’t know they’ve come back since everything—

Since watching him walk away—

Since watching his father twist up into knots, hand on the gun as if to kill, screaming for him to come back—

Of course it’d dredge up memories. Thoughts of Aramis on the wheel, pulled from sinew to sinew. The queen, murdered. All of them – killed. Of course these things would surface again.

A woman, alone in the Court, unmourned by anyone except a little boy—

He thinks, I’ve never forgotten that. 

He looks at Aramis now, looks down, swallows thickly. He doesn’t feel solid. He feels as if he’ll blow away with the wind. 

“Porthos,” Aramis murmurs, steps in closer. “Are you alright?” 

Porthos shakes his head, can’t think to put to words what he’s feeling.

Hours later, nightfall, and Aramis slips into his tent without invitation, without being asked. There are still worry-lines at his forehead. Porthos leans back on his bedroll, frowns at him thoughtfully – can’t think, again, to put to words what he’s feeling. 

Aramis reaches out, touches his forehead. Smoothes at his temples. Touches his hair. Comforting, almost like a father to a son. The thought makes his heart twist up. He knows it would only hurt Aramis to speak it. He lets him touch him, all the same. Lets his thumb fan across his eyebrow. Trace the scar.

Porthos closes his eyes. The wind outside is harsh, the shadows across his tent flickering in the campfire light as it whips around licks of air. There are voices outside, the night-watch, some men idling by the fires. Order. He escaped the chaos. He is safe. 

She is gone, but –

He has already known that for some time. His bones ache. 

“Porthos,” Aramis whispers, and he can hear the laces of worry threaded into the simple name. Porthos opens his eyes, looks at him. “Sit up, please.” 

Porthos blinks once, and then does as he asks. The words are soft. Not a command. A plea. He sits up and Aramis moves to him, presses to him – chest to chest, a kind of clarity and consideration Porthos hasn’t felt in some time. He doesn’t flinch this time, although he is on edge. It meant something, the way Aramis touches his back, the cusp of his skull, cupping the back of his neck. 

Knuckles kneading at the back of his neck, working out the tension. Porthos breathes out, shaky. Thinks about those he’s lost – those left behind, those who left him behind—

Thinks, Aramis is here again.

Thinks, he is safe. Both of them. 

As safe as they can be in war. Aramis’ hand presses flat to his back. Shifts closer, presses his cheek to Porthos’. Porthos can hear his breath. 

“It’s alright,” Aramis whispers. “I have you.” 

He does. Porthos feels tension bleed from his shoulders. Aramis shifts, wraps his arms around him properly – hugs him. Porthos slumps forward, leans into him. Aramis is there to guide him. 

“I thought you were going to fall,” Aramis whispers, after a long moment of silence. 

A small noise in the back of his throat, half-there, but surprising out of him. Porthos wraps his arms around Aramis now. Squeezes him. Gathers him to him. 

“Never,” Porthos says. “I’m alright.” 

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Aramis says. Porthos doesn’t ask him how he can tell – knows that Aramis would know better than most the way a bad dream manifests across an expression. He’s known Porthos for too long.

“I’ll be okay,” Porthos says, quiet. 

“I’ll make sure,” Aramis says, the worry still thick in his voice. 

Porthos closes his eyes. Thinks about who he’s lost—

Tightens his hold on Aramis.


End file.
